Creature
by Antilochus
Summary: Something lurks in the dungeons of Nottingham castle. This story is equal parts ridiculousness and wish-fulfillment. Spoilers for "Treasure of the Nation". Co-written with Sharp Sparks.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** this was written for the 2008 guyxmarian Secret Santa on Livejournal.

* * *

Allan a Dale fought for a flint, his hands meeting mold as he scraped them over the stone floor. There was no light in this part of the dungeon, and he had been trapped here with baskets of sand for about an hour. Who kept sand in baskets? No one was likely to come 'round anytime soon, so he wasn't in danger of being seen, especially not since that freak wind had blown out his torch. He couldn't remember the dungeons being so drafty.

A noise erupted from behind the wall next to him. His hand went to his dagger and he froze, waiting for it to pass. What would he say if he were caught here? That he was meeting a maid for a tumble and got lost? Hardly. He sure as hell didn't want anyone knowing he was down here looking to steal from the sheriff's secret treasure chest. If there was such a treasure chest. That git Aethel from the kitchen had lied to him once before; Allan wouldn't put it past him to have done it again, especially on a night like Christmas Eve.

Allan heard moaning, and punched his belly to keep it quiet. Pickled hog and spiced wine – he could be having that right now. Giz might even have given him his own plate to eat off of! Since that whole Nightwatchman fiasco, Giz and Marian had been a little chummy – a little too chummy, in Allan's eyes, but it made Giz nicer to deal with, so he wouldn't do anything to change it. Why, oh why couldn't he have just planned to come down here another night? In daytime even? Not that he'd be able to see then either.

The noise behind the wall came again. Allan pressed his ear to the cold, wet stone to listen. There was still a noise, but it was softer, like crying. He hadn't known that there was anything behind that wall – he thought it was just, well, dirt. This was the deepest part of the dungeon, after all. Oh, Christ, was it a ghost? He tapped on the stone. No response.

"Oy," he whispered, feeling stupid for doing so. "Oy, is anyone there?"

He heard a sniffle, and then nothing. It must be the wind. It has to be the wind. Doesn't the wind sometimes sound like crying children? Allan's mother had told him that. Of course, she always told him that after dad had taken his brother outside to "talk" after he'd been caught stealing. And really, it was kind of a morbid thing to tell your child, but he wanted it to be true.

Just as Allan was beginning to feel really stupid, and that he'd imagined the noise, he heard a thump from the opposite side of the wall. He stared at the wall, daring it to do so again, and it did, but louder this time. The stones shook under his hand, and a cloud of dust blew into his face. He coughed and scrambled to his feet, walking backwards. The thumping continued, and it got louder, and the wall shook harder, as if someone were trying to break through. Allan searched around him for something to hide behind, but it was dark and he tripped over a basket. He fell to his knees, catching himself with his palms. He grimaced, realizing that he'd cut himself on something. He fished around the floor and felt a small, flat stone with a sharp edge – it felt like flint. Oh, of course, now he finds it. Behind him, the wall exploded.

He ducked instinctively as bits of dirt and stone blew over his head. He held his breath, waiting for the dust cloud to leave.

With shaking, sweaty hands he reached for his dagger then turned his head over his shoulder to see if he could see whoever or whatever had entered. Heavy breathing told him it was a person, or at least an animal. He squinted.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me--"

* * *

Marian pushed the goblet away from her. "Sir Guy, the wine is fine, I'm just not thirsty, I told you."

His brow furrowed with concern. "You've had hardly anything to eat or drink all night."

"That's because I've been eating all day, overseeing the kitchen."

"Oh," He sank a little into his elbows, crossed as they were on the table. He was wearing a dark green tunic of fine wool, instead of his usual black leather. Tonight was a night for miracles. "Forgive me, Marian, I forgot."

Her mouth cracked into a smile. She reached out to squeeze his forearm, and admonish him for worrying too much about her, but before she could speak, he caught her fingers between his own.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice going dark all of a sudden. "Thank you for being here." Her throat went dry, and she suddenly felt thirsty.

"Of course I would be here," she answered, trying to avoid the direction the conversation was heading. "It's Christmas Eve, and as the lady of the castle…"

"No, I mean, thank you for staying with me," His head lowered and he drew her hand toward his lips. She held her breath.

Just then, a small object hurtled at the space between her and Guy. They both ducked as it hit the wall behind them. She looked over her shoulder to see a slimy trail ending on the floor in a half-eaten chicken breast. Guy's dogs collided with each other to fight for it. She turned back around, searching for the source of the projectile poultry, and saw Vasey smiling at her. His gold tooth glinted in the torch-lit room.

"Slippery little things, aren't they?" Vasey laughed, "So sorry about that. I should have the cook beaten for making the food so greasy."

Marian opened her mouth to speak but Guy put his hand on her wrist, "I'll look into that, my lord," he said.

She glared at Guy but he had turned back to his plate and wouldn't look at her. Fuming, she took a sip of her wine and tapped her nails on the table. Vasey always took delight in embarrassing his vassals, but the holidays gave him extra opportunity to be awful. The sheriff had invited everyone north of the Thames to spend Christmas at Nottingham this year, and she doubted he was just trying to be neighborly. Marian hadn't been lying to Guy earlier about being busy – this past week she'd been slaving away, trying to keep the castle organized and the guests happy, not to mention trying to figure out what the sheriff was up to. The guests themselves made that more or less difficult. Guy may have been oblivious to some of the attention he was being paid by some of the visiting ladies, but Marian wasn't. A blonde woman with a low cut ivory bliaut leaned across the table opposite Guy and leered at him. Marian glowered.

"Have you seen Allan?" Guy asked, sawing at his plate with a steak knife. She worried that he'd cut through to the table.

"No, I haven't had time to keep track of him," she replied, annoyed. She didn't want to be here anymore, and she suspected that Guy didn't either. An idea came to her. "Guy, perhaps someone should look for him," she said hopefully.

Guy didn't look up from cutting his food. "No, it's his fault if he forgets to eat."

She swallowed, and then clarified, putting her hand over his arm to get his attention, "Perhaps you should escort me through the castle as I look for him."

Guy looked up, something indescribable crossing over his features for a brief second. "Of course," he murmured, and stood back from the table. He nodded curtly to the sheriff, who waved back cheerfully, the frog legs he was holding bouncing wildly. Pieces of the animal fell off as it flapped.

Marian gaped at Vasey in fascinated disgust as Guy yanked her up by the arm and led her out of the room.

"Do you think he's in the kitchen?" Marian asked conversationally, as soon as they were out of the room.

Guy grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around to face him. "Marian," he said decisively.

"Guy," she shot back. She was good at thinking on her feet but not always about the consequences. He had taken her intentions the wrong way yet again.

"I don't think you really care about finding Allan," Guy remanded, his voice turning into that queer combination of gruff, oily and smooth that made her think of bear rugs in front of fireplaces. She didn't want to explain that to herself.

A loud noise distracted them both and saved her. It was a high pitched squealing, followed by a clatter, and then a honking, as though a pig had knocked over a shelf of pots and pans, which then fell on top of a duck.

"What the devil-"

Marian ran down the hallway after the noise, Guy trailing her. He had longer legs, but she'd always been quicker, a talent that was the Nightwatchman's saving grace for many years - this year not withstanding. She'd been caught and thought she was going to die, but miraculously, Guy had changed his mind and saved her.

Strange, living with him now. He knew that they had been enemies, that she had lied to him and tried to hurt him, but he still wanted to be around her. She'd stopped fearing him. In these past few months, he'd actually become someone she didn't hate having around, and sometimes she had to remind herself that he was an ugly, boorish coward, and that she hated him.

They arrived at the entrance to a staircase that she didn't recognize. It was dark below, so she fetched a torch from the wall, and proceeded down. Guy caught her, "What do you think you're doing? You can't go in there."

Her interest piqued, "Why not? There's nothing down there, I just wanted to see what caused the noise,"

"It's dangerous – you don't know what's down there. What if you trip?"

Oh, for the love of- "Guy, I'm quite capable, and I have a light. I'm not going to trip,"

"Just let me go first, will you?"

She bit her lip, forced a smile. Of course, he had to be in front. How many years as the Nightwatchman, and he still didn't trust her to explore a simple castle? "Then you must give me your dagger, since you think it's dangerous."

He looked almost tender as he handed her the moon-shaped blade. Briskly, she awarded him the torch and together they began the descent.


	2. Chapter 2

The passageway went down longer than she thought possible. The smoke from the torch was becoming a nuisance, and she wondered if she should fake spraining her ankle to leave and go back up. Ah, but then Guy would insist on carrying her.

A cold gale snapped through the stairs and blew out the torch. Fingers laced with hers in the darkness. She felt a surge of warmth for her companion.

"Marian, go back upstairs, and fetch me another torch," Guy ordered. The warmth disappeared.

"I am not one of your guards, Guy," she protested.

"Woman," he growled, "Do as I say!"

She withdrew her hand from his. She couldn't see his reaction in the light-less space, and it may have been a blessing for him that he didn't see her face right now.

"Marian," he said, sternly, "I don't want you climbing down without light. Something could hurt you."

Incensed, she pushed past him and taunted, "What, you think that I'm going to get hurt in this empty passageway leading to nowhere, with nothing in it but air? But it's fine for you to stay down here, isn't it?"

"Fine, stay down here!" He roared, and marched back up. She didn't move, staring blankly into the black where his back would have been. He had such a stupid temper.

She'd follow him back up in a short bit, but she didn't want to be near him for the moment. She climbed down a little further to put more distance between them. Then she heard something from below, like someone was crying. She listened. There it was again. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should call Guy, and then headed down anyway. She had his dagger, and her skills. That should be enough.

Soon enough the stairs ended in a landing. She felt along the walls to see what kind of space she was in – the walls were long. Maybe she'd reached a room. She padded around softly, not trusting her surroundings.

"Hello," she called out experimentally, "Is anyone there? We heard crying,"

There was a rustle behind her. She whirled and drew out the dagger. Nothing moved. She had over-reacted. "I said hello," she called again, louder this time, "I'd like to help you but I can't stay down here forever, and I can't see. You need to help me find you."

Something brushed against her ankle and she leapt back from it, then stumbled into something soft – a basket, maybe – and fell on her rump. She hissed at the pain – she'd probably bruised herself – and scrambled backwards. Something touched her knee, and she stabbed the thing.

"Ah, really Marian, come off it!"

"Allan?"

"Yeah, it's Allan, oh, thank God, someone came to find me."

Guilt swirled over her skin; she'd been using Allan's absence as an excuse, but she'd really assumed that he would turn up on his own. "Yes, of course, we were worried," she said through gritted teeth, hoping she sounded sincere. "Allan, what have you been doing down here?"

"Trying to get lost. Look, I've been hurt, I think there's something down here, and it bit me,"

"You mean there's an animal down here?" She froze. Men were easy to deal with; she had no idea how to handle wild animals.

"Yeah, it gnawed at me. Took out a chunk of my wrist before I hit it with a frying pan. We have to get out of here before it wakes up. Do you know how to go? I have to get to the kitchen. I'm so hungry,"

"You've missed most of dinner but I'm sure there'll be some scraps. There's just a doorway – a staircase. I'll walk you to it,"

"A staircase? That's it? But I came down through- nevermind."

She helped him up and supported him with her shoulder as they walked back to the stair. She felt along the stones until she found the opening, and they walked through. Too bad Guy had his tantrum; Allan was a little heavy for her to carry. She was thankful that the staircase only had the one direction – up. Without the light, she didn't know how else they'd make it.

The climb was getting tiring for her, but luckily, Allan seemed to be recovering. She thought about asking him to support her, even. Just a little bit further, and they'd see the light. She was going to have a very long bath when she got to the top, and forget this night had happened. It was such a waste of a night, anyway.

Allan spoke up, "I think we're nearing the top. I can see, finally."

"Really? I can't see at all. And I remember the stair being much longer than this."

"Well you must have your eyes closed, because I can see perfectly."

She fumed. He was playing with her. She turned to him to give him a saucy reply and was struck dumb. She could see – but it was queer, she couldn't see much, only a bit of red. Her eyes must still be adjusting. She reached out to touch, and Allan yelped.

"Watch where you stick your fingers, Marian! I need my eyeballs, you know?"

She blinked. The color came from his eyes – they were the only thing visible in the stair, and they were glowing red, like rubies. Allan's breathing had slowed down, and she watched in fascination as his pupils grew large. He was mesmerizing; she'd never thought of Allan a Dale as mesmerizing. She squinted, and reached out again.

* * *

Guy slammed his heel into the floor at a tilted angle, trying to shake his boots off his feet. He only had a few more minutes before some of the visiting lords came back up to share his room. He shivered and moved to stand by the fire. The fire crackled and blew out with a hiss. He hoped that Marian was freezing down in the bowels of the castle where he'd left her. Guy glanced at his desk and noted with a pang that he should have been going over the castle's inventory scrolls tonight instead of chasing spirits with her.

He sank into his chair with a sigh, and reached for the closest scroll. The numbers were atrocious – the price of supporting Richard's army while staging the man's coup. Guy was going to have to visit Nettlestone tomorrow and collect taxes. He'd have to plan it around the Christmas mass at Locksley.

The door creaked open. One of the guests, he presumed. He didn't turn to face them. A cold wind hit his back and he growled, "If you're not going to close the door, at least rebuild the fire."

"I did close the door," a honeyed voice replied.

"Marian?" He turned, not believing his eyes. There stood Marian, dressed in a long fur robe, alone in his room. He immediately went over to the door and pulled down the bar lock, barricading the room and sealing them inside.

She lifted her eyebrows, amused, and moved closer to his bed. He swallowed, afraid to proceed. This was so unlike her – maybe it wasn't Marian at all, maybe it was a succubus, a devil. He wouldn't be surprised if she had been that all along. He closed his eyes and opened them again to see if she would still be there. She was, and she was clutching her left hand close to her heart. He saw that the wrist was bandaged. He breathed a sigh of relief – spirits don't need bandages, do they?

In the corner, Guy's dog snarled. He smacked the hound and opened the door to kick him outside, then locked the entrance again.

"You seem surprised, Guy," she said, impeccably calm.

"Marian," he said facing the door, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, "What are you doing here?"

He heard a rustle of fabrics and the sigh of a mattress. She must have sat on his bed. He closed his eyes, and prayed that no one would come upstairs. The earlier cold was becoming a hazy memory, just like his self-control.

He would have to face her sometime. He turned to find her stroking the grooves on the carved bedpost; her other hand was playing with the ties of her cloak. The ties slipped, leaving only her fingers at her throat. He gazed, thinking of putting his mouth there. Her curls fell over her shoulders, luscious cinnamon over skin like the pale flesh of an almond. The fur cloak pooled at her waist. She caught his eye, and the smile she gave him was anything but innocent.

He realized that they hadn't exchanged gifts for Christmas.

He pushed her back into the mattress with his mouth over her lips. Her hands tangled in his hair and his shirt; her legs wrapped around his back. The part of his mind screaming that this was wrong - that they should be married, that she was still playing him - was quickly being drowned out by the part of his mind screaming that there were only two laces left before her gown could come off.

He pulled back to tug off his shirt and she hissed at the separation as the room's cool air hit their flesh. He gazed down upon her for a moment, studying the gorgeous thing beneath him, like she was a stained glass window. She was flushed all over, from her cheeks to her bosom, with strawberry lips and a pomegranate tongue, and eyes the colour of rubies. He looked at her eyes twice and then blinked; it must be the wine he drank earlier messing with his head. He stopped wasting time and bent down to nibble at the soft flesh of her neck, delighting at the cries she made. He doubted that Hood would ever get such a reaction from her. The thought of them together suddenly sickened him, and he almost pulled away from her, but she started to run her lips over his collarbone, soothing him with unspoken words. He buried his face in her neck and arched his back, letting her practice her strange magic.

He barely even noticed the tiny pinpricks of pain at his neck.

* * *

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

Back in Sherwood Forest the five outlaws who made up Robin Hood's gang – or, Robin Hood himself, as they liked to say – huddled before a fire. They snuggled in pairs, sharing each other's body heat: Robin and Much, Djaq and John, Will and…his blanket. Since Djaq was Muslim, they hadn't felt comfortable singing Christmas songs, so they were telling ghost stories instead. John was a horrible storyteller, just awful, and Will's teeth chattered too much for him to get anything out longer than a sentence. It was Much's turn to go.

"Oi, Much, this chicken you made for us," Robin said, interrupting Much's introduction. "It's a little stringy, isn't it?"

Much huffed, "I don't know what you're talking about,"

John pulled a bit from his teeth. "No, you're right. I think he made squirrel again."

"No, it's chicken. Shiska-bob chicken – I learned how to make it on crusade, isn't that right, master?"

Robin chuckled a little under his breath. Will waved the stick holding his meat over the fire and brought it back to savor its warmth.

"Much," Djaq trilled, "You made us shiska-squirrel!"

"It's Christmas squirrel, thank you!" he retorted defiantly, and the others sniggered at their cleverness.

He crossed his arms. "If you don't mind, I had a story to tell."

"About the fallen angels?" Robin asked.

"Yes, thank you." Much cleared his throat and continued, his voice becoming very serious, "Fallen angels, soldiers of Lucifer, with eyes that glow like hellfire. They suck the life out of men, leaving them to walk for eternity with an insatiable lust for blood. Men call them… _Vampyres_."

He said the last word in a hush, hoping to enrapture them.

"Oh, I've heard of those," Djaq interjected, "But we Muslims, followers of the true faith, are immune to their curses."

"No, that is not true," Much declared, incensed. "And you know why? Because I just made them up."

"Aha!"

He flushed. "I mean, I didn't make them up entirely. I heard about them in Cyprus; they're supposed to be from north of Byzantium. Not from Acre, where you're from."

Robin spoke up in a quiet voice, "Cyprus, Byzantium, Acre – those are all places that have been ravaged by war. Maybe both Much and Djaq are right. Maybe there are Vampyres, but what we call 'Vampyres' are nothing more than men who have been driven mad with anger and bloodlust. When men kill each other, when they fight and destroy lives, they become monsters."

Everyone grew silent. The firewood crackled as the flames ate away at it while the members of the camp considered Robin's words.

The members of the camp lay down after that, getting ready to sleep, Much clenched his teeth and fumed. Another perfectly good story, turned into a parable. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Robin, but his friend had missed the point entirely. The Vampyre didn't have a choice except to drink blood. Men were monsters all on their own, but they were beautiful too. Much had done terrible things in war, things he was ashamed of, but he was trying to do good now – to make up for it, if nothing else. Robin's explanation was too hopeless, too damning. As Much sank his head into the leaves he and Robin had assembled for a pillow, he wondered why a story couldn't ever just remain what it was - _a story_.

* * *

Morning brought a set of aches and pains for Guy of Gisborne. His head ached, his jaw ached, and his stomach ached - even his skin, ached. He found himself alone in his bed. He leaned back into the sheets and groaned – Vasey would be furious when he found out that he'd kept the door locked. There were a number of important guests who were supposed to share Gisborne's room, and they didn't exactly have a contingency plan in case Gisborne decided to entertain his lady.

He noted the daylight with a grunt and crossed his arm over his face. He rarely slept in this late. He rolled out of bed, still unwilling to open his eyes, and rubbed at his neck; the skin was sticky. He stepped into his braises and pants before making his way over to a water basin. He broke the ice sheet with his elbow then dipped a rag into the water and sluiced his neck, grimacing at the cold. Upon returning the rag to the basin, he saw that the color of the water had changed. Tendrils of red snaked out from the rag, turning the water pink. He touched his neck, and felt a sensitive area along one of his tendons. He dug through the mess of his clothes for his sword. He withdrew the blade from the scabbard, and then tilted the steel to catch his reflection.

There was a red ring on his neck; it looked like a bite-mark. He smirked, remembering Marian's teeth on his neck. He hadn't expected that sort of action from her, but then again, he hadn't expected any of what had happened last night. His fear now was that she didn't either – and that was why she had not been by his side in the morning.

Unless, of course, she had never been there at all, that the lady in his arms last night had been sent by the Devil, or built on a dream. He turned back to his bed, flipping back the furs to check for her maiden blood on the sheet.

Then he backed away, stumbling, and fell down, gaping in horror.

There was blood all right - everywhere. It looked as though someone had been murdered. The sheets were drenched in dark red, and brown flakes encrusted the folds in the sheets. He gaped at his skin with the dread realization that he was covered in a thin film of sticky, dried blood. Now he understood why his skin had itched. His head buzzed. He tried to think of what he remembered of the previous night and realized that his memory actually stopped at a certain point – with her teeth on his neck. Everything after that was darkness. He had no idea where Marian was right now, or if she were even alive. He didn't even know that he had _not_ killed her.

He thought of his promises to her, of a life together at Locksley. His future disappeared before him - like a candle dipped in water, not even an ember remained.

He dressed within seconds, taking only his sword and his purse, and then he ran.

* * *

Marian Fitzwalter sat at the edge of the bed with her hands crossed in her lap. After two baths, there was still red caked under her nails.

She knew the house she was in – it belonged to a woman named Matilda, and it was in Nettlestone. Sure, Marian remembered riding here, but she hadn't exactly been thinking clearly at the time. She had been running away from the castle as fast as her horse could carry her, trying to forget what she had seen. Forgetting was more or less easy. She remembered very little from last night after climbing the staircase with Allan. The only thing she did remember clearly was waking up naked and trapped beneath Gisborne's lifeless body. She had been covered in blood.

She had to use all of her strength to push him off of her, shuddering at the touch of the cold skin. His sallow skin shone in stark contrast to the bright red sheets, except for a faint purple stain over his chest, where he'd been lying on her.

She called out his name, over and over again, like a cat begging for its mother, and covered her mouth to cry when he did not respond. She bent over him to close his eyelids, and quaked as her fingers brushed his lashes. She had to leave – there was nothing for her here, no man, just a corpse. Quickly, she put together her things, not even caring that her shift went on inside out, as long as she was covered. Just before she left, she went back to the bed and leaned her head against his chest, listening for a heartbeat. There was nothing there but bones and flesh. She kissed his cheek, knowing that she would never do so again, and she left.

Matilda had given her refuge for the rest of the night- and a bath and a bed. As she laid next to Matilda on the bed, the two women pooling their warmth, she had buried her face in the pillow, praying for sleep to come and take her memory away.

_Stop hiding, Marian, you know exactly what happened_, a voice nagged her, as it had all morning. She balled up her fist and smacked it against the bed post, trying to stamp out her memory of the corpse.

Marian put a hand to her belly, flinching at the bandages on her arm – there was a nasty bite mark on her left wrist she'd somehow acquired. Gingerly, she touched the wound, and saw bright red eyes, felt searing pain, and heard Allan a Dale's voice.

Unbidden, her thoughts flooded with new images. She was haunted by visions of coal-dark eyes, of a taut muscled chest, golden in the firelight, and by the feel of hot skin slipping under her palms. Gisborne. She imagined the salty taste of his neck, his musky scent filling her nostrils, and her name, uttered with hushed reverence. The heat from his blood encircled her, and she could almost hear his heartbeat.

She closed her eyes.

"Lady Marian," Matilda called out, breaking her thoughts, "The mass is starting soon at our chapel. You can come if you like."

Church sounded wonderful right now – a chance to commune with God and to pray for Gisborne's soul. Gisborne had not been a good man, but she had never wished for his death. He had been so different in the past few months, almost kind. The scar at her side ached as though it was new, and she swallowed tears. Whatever had happened last night, she did not want to know anymore. She did not want to remember him as he was when she had left him.

She nodded to Matilda, and asked if she could borrow a dark shawl. She wrapped herself in it tightly, so that it hid part of her face. Matilda offered Marian her arm, so they could huddle for warmth, and they went out together. Her feet were heavy as she walked through the snow.

* * *

Allan a Dale was hungry. This was a common enough occurrence when he was an outlaw in Robin's gang, but since being with Gisborne, it had been less of a problem, so the fact that he was hungry now bothered him. He stalked down to the kitchen while everyone else was at mass, reveling to find the room empty. He tore off some pieces of bread and cheese, stuffing as much as he could fit into his mouth, and then spat it all back out again. He couldn't remember cheese or bread tasting so foul – it must have been moldy. He looked around for something else - an apple - and started chomping, but that was rotten. Unbelievable. He went through piles of fruits, vegetables, pastries, and cheeses, unable to find a single thing that was not spoiled to the core. He got to the meats, and his blood quickened.

He let his nose guide him, following it to the sweetest smelling morsels. When he came to a pile of freshly cut, uncooked meat, his belly made such a loud noise he was afraid someone would hear. Sensing that no one was coming, he grabbed fistfuls of the meat and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted sour, but decent. He sucked it dry, spitting out the wads of flesh. The juices tasted best – he wanted more of that. He became so hungry that he didn't even care what he was eating. He hunted around for something else to devour, having made it through all the raw meat and decided to follow his nose again. Stepping around the back of the kitchen, closer to the outside door, he drew round to the cages holding live animals. Allan bent over, peering at a chicken bobbing its head in and out of its cage, and he licked his lips.

* * *

Marian was the last person kneeling in the chapel after the mass ended. She felt empty; the mass had done nothing for her. Worse, throughout the service, she could hardly hear the priest for the voice tittering in her skull, laughing at the sermon on redemption.

Once Gisborne's body had been found, it may not even be safe for her to return. If she was the last person he'd been seen with last night, she could be implicated in his murder. Horror grew in the pit of her stomach as she wondered if she could prove her innocence – to the sheriff, to God, or herself.

She bent over tightly, clutching the rosary to her chest as she mouthed prayers she couldn't fully verbalize. She couldn't imagine going back to the castle if he was not there; he had come to mean home to her more than any tapestry or stone tower. She didn't realize how much he'd meant to her until now.

Footsteps sounded beside her, and she looked up through blurry eyes to see the old priest smiling down at her.

"Father, forgive me," she begged, and he laughed.

"For what, child?"

She didn't know. He sat on the bench next to her and held her to him. She hugged him and cried as he rubbed circles over her back. She cried until her voice was hoarse and her cheeks stung, and she thought she could cry no more. The pain in her chest changed slightly; she realized that she was hungry. She couldn't remember when she'd last eaten. The meal that Matilda had prepared for her tasted foul, and the communion wine and wafers were sour on her tongue. She hadn't had anything to drink since last night.

She was grateful for the priest's presence; he was such a comfort. His warmth, his quiet, even his smell – he smelled wonderful, delicious even, like baked bread and venison. She hugged him around his neck, meaning to thank him for stopping by, and noticed that his scent was stronger in his neck. Overpowering, even. A pang hit her stomach. She was so hungry…

* * *

Allan a Dale, unwilling to admit to whatever had just happened in the kitchen between him and the chicken, stumbled around the courtyard. The sun was unusually bright today. He heard Gisborne bellowing out his name and cringed. It was Christmas day – shouldn't he get today off or something? He sighed and turned to face his master, then cringed again.

Gisborne looked like a wreck; he was dressed and all but his hair was uncombed and his eyes were wild. He grabbed Allan by the collar of his shirt and snarled.

"Have you seen her?"

The one thing that was nice about Giz was predictability. You never needed to ask who he meant by 'her'. "Why, she run off again?"

Gisborne dropped Allan and looked away. "Very funny."

Allan sighed. "No, sorry, not since yesterday. You checked her chamber?"

"Yes, of course I've checked her chamber!" Gisborne snapped back.

Allan put up his hands in defeat. "Then I don't know. I suppose she'd be at mass, with everyone else."

"Yeah, well, she wasn't at mass, not with everyone else, and her horse was gone."

"Maybe she had to visit someone out of town. She does have friends, you know,"

Gisborne paused, possibly considering this. Or maybe he just wanted Allan out of his sight. "Fine. I want you to check every village in Nottinghamshire – don't return until you find her."

"But Giz, that's unreal! I mean, I haven't even gotten to celebrate Christmas yet myself!"

"Well then you'd better find her!" Gisborne yelled and stalked off again.

Allan shook his head and headed for the stables, promising himself never to fall in love.

* * *

Acting on a tip from a woman who swore to have seen Marian at mass in Nettlestone this morning, Allan saddled his horse and rode to the village. He had a fair idea of what had happened to Marian, but he wouldn't dare tell Gisborne. It was the same thing that had happened to Allan: she had been attacked by something. It had drained her of blood and left her looking dead. After a few minutes, she'd jerked awake, right as rain except for those red eyes and stalked off with an empty belly.

Allan was slowly piecing together his memories from the night before. A voice in his head told him that he had changed and become something more than human, and that he needed the blood of living creatures in order to survive. He didn't disagree with the voice - it seemed to be the only logical explanation for why he had attacked that poultry this morning. It explained why he'd bitten that liar Aethel, when he caught the man later on in the day - although, if anyone was asking, Aethel had been asking for it. If Marian was any indication, then everyone that Allan bit was at risk of becoming like him, and potentially, anyone that Marian bit.

His greatest fear now was that there would be monster chickens walking around the castle. Allan had already noted where the heaviest gold chests were hidden in the castle, in case things went sour with Giz and he had to leave. He wondered if he could get to Scarborough before anyone came after him.

The chapel was quiet when he found it; no one answered when he knocked on the doors. He pushed them open, and he sighed with relief as soon as he saw what was lying in the aisle. He'd found Marian all right, and the priest. Allan nudged the bloody corpse by Marian's knees with his toe. The old man didn't move. Allan whistled in admiration.

"Sucked him plumb dry, didn't you?"

"If you're going to mock, please, do it somewhere else," she said, making spluttering noises. She lifted up the priest's robe and blew her nose.

He clicked his tongue. "Nope, sorry, I've got orders to find you."

She looked up at him with a contorted expression, and then flew at him, clawing at his eyes. He stepped back and grabbed her wrists, but she rolled towards his thumbs and broke the hold, pressing the heel of her boot into his foot. He cried out, and she punched him in the middle of his face. He fell backwards, catching himself on a bench and clutching his nose.

"Lady, you have got to calm down!" he cried, his voice coming out nasal.

"Guy is dead!" she shot back, adding, "And I'm a murderer! I drank his blood, and the priest's. I'm a monster." She sank to her knees and cried.

Allan was silent for a moment, and then he asked, his voice still artificially high. "Did he taste like venison?"

She shrieked, "I just killed a priest! I'm going to hell! Could you at least take this seriously?"

Allan laughed. "Come off it, Marian. He's fine! They're both fine. I saw Giz this morning. Right as rain, he was. A little crazy-eyed, and barking, but that's not unusual."

Her eyes glowed pink as she glared at Allan. "Don't mock me."

"I'm not! I'm telling the truth – he ordered me to find you, and I have, so you're coming back with me."

When she didn't answer, he bent to her side and patted her back, keeping a fair distance – he wasn't sure she wouldn't attack him again, just for sport.

"Marian, you have to listen to me. Now, I'm not being funny, but I think that we're both different now. You remember the staircase? Remember what happened there?"

She didn't answer, but he could see a flicker in her eyes, like she was starting to remember. "You were bitten," he said, carefully avoiding the subject of his own culpability. "And you died. But not really, just for a few minutes, well, several, actually, I didn't have a way to tell, so I was just estimating, and…"

"Allan! Get to the point!"

"Right, so, you came back to life, got it? That's the important part. And your eyes were funny, but that wasn't a big thing, and then you got up and walked away. Same thing will happen with this priest here."

She sniffed and looked at the priest. Sure enough, the old man's arms and legs jerked a little, as though he'd been struck by lightning. She shrieked and got to her feet, backing away. Allan got up with her.

"But, he's…I just…" She stammered, her bottom lip sticking out prettily. Allan sighed; if Giz and Robin both wouldn't have his hide for it, he might've thought of kissing her. If she weren't so crazy, that was.

He grabbed her by the arms, shaking her. "Marian, think. Have you heard any voices lately, telling you that everything's all right? That you're more than human?"

Her eyes didn't leave the freakish figure shaking spasmodically on the floor, but she nodded.

"I didn't want to believe it - I thought I was going mad."

Allan didn't disagree.

She gasped. "Oh, Allan, is it the devil?"

He shrugged. "Even if it is, everyone seems to be doing all right afterwards. No harm done, right?"

She bowed her head; fresh tears poured down her face. "You said that Gisborne was alive?"

"And I won't hear the end of it until he sees you again." Allan paused and spoke wistfully, "You know, I've heard that Scarborough is beautiful this time of year…"

She brushed her tears off her face as though she hadn't heard him. "I want to see him. We have to go back."

Allan sighed. Off to the side, the old man groaned and sat up. His head was tilted at an awkward angle.

Marian looked at the old man, amazingly calm. "Should we help him?"

"Nah, he's fine. He'll figure it out. And he'll probably be a little grumpy for a while, too."

She nodded, "But maybe we should lock him in, so he has some time to figure it out, you think?"

"Uhm, no. Best not do that. It'll be worse if he can't feed, I think."

"He can't be near people, though."

"Why not?"

"He's a priest!"

"He drinks blood! And in case you're forgetting, lady, you're the one who made him that way."

"Maybe, but I don't have to let his dignity suffer." She bit her lip. "Allan, come on, find me a small animal or something,"

"Not my horse, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, I love horses. But a dog, surely we could find one that no one would miss," she muttered, her eyes deepening in red.

Allan gaped at her back as she stepped out of the church. Couldn't she just suggest a cow or something less cute? He closed the door behind them, locking the priest inside, and followed her out on her hunt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: This chapter was written by **dragondreamfire**, who will henceforth be co-authoring this story with me.

* * *

The stone corridors were anything but exceptional this afternoon, too many people in too many moods, all of them too cheerful. He was on his way to pay Gisborne a visit; the man had done him the discourtesy of skipping out on the multitude of Vasey's guests. His tongue pulsed against his skeleton's tooth, fusing his face into a grimace that was concentrated on anyone who crossed his line of sight. His mutterings were ignored by the goons traipsing about in guard uniforms.

Where the bloody hell is that rat, Gisborne? "If I throw a feast I expect it to be eaten, not left on a plate for the dogs!" Vasey mused on the thought for a moment. "Well, that's all they are, isn't it? Dogs, how lovely. Yes, that's quite good, quite good." He let his fists loosen to allow his fingers room to play in contemplation, tapping their tips together as if to the only welcome note heard in the castle – one of someone's undoing.

Gisborne was in his room, still in a panic waiting for news of Marian. His gloves were ripping at the sheets and furs of his bed with a desire to burn away the terror he couldn't remember from the previous night. Images of her swept through his mind, lying there nearly naked, waiting for him to devour her covetous flesh. The memory of her lips whispering his name, falling sweet and delicate on his desire made him wince, agonized over what he must have done. His passion, of all things, to claim her, to be one with her, finally took Marian from him. Guy clenched the bloodied sheets and leaned into the covers, sliding to his knees against the wooden frame. He could never repent enough for this; power given from the hands of the sheriff almost didn't matter anymore. Burying his face in the sheets, Guy let out an anguished yell into the fabric, a moan of despair he never knew he could utter. He could still smell her in the folds, and the need to have them surround him was stronger than he wanted to believe. The mass of blood, browning toward the center, would not, could not, be there if he only closed his eyes, if what was left of Marian was the only thing he held.

* * *

The small sparrow inside the wicker cage cast a twitching glance at the toothy smile aimed in its direction. Ringed fingers were thrumming against the confine, as if they could play notes fit for a harp from the reedy enclosure.

"Is today the day my little friend? The day you fly to freedom and bound about in the endless reaches of the sky?" Vasey opened the tiny door and peered in at the bird.

"My good lord sheriff-"

Vasey put a finger in the air to silence Gisborne's gruff voice, his attention still latched to the sparrow. "Will you twitter your prettiest little song to the great world?" The bird hopped toward the open doorway. "A clue? No." He stuffed the door shut and left the cage swinging, pivoting on his heel to throw a curious stare at Gisborne.

"My good lord sheriff," Gisborne began again, his sentences coming in slow and rough as usual, "I must apologize for my absence last night. I was, I was-"

"What's that now Gisborne? Come now, speak up, speak up." Vasey glided around him picking up an apple from his desk and tossing it in the air.

"I was summoned away by-"

"Yes, I know," Vasey's voice was low and mocking as he ended his game of catch, "lepers." He pursed his lips together and exhaled through his nose, raising an eyebrow at Gisborne. "Do you know why I called you hear Gisborne?"

"Uh, my lord?"

"Come now Gisborne, it's a simple question." Vasey stepped closer to his master at arms.

Gisborne remained stiff, staring over the sheriff's head as he normally did when wanting to avoid the sheriff's anger. He was exceptionally uncomfortable with the situation, not that this was unusual for the old man, but there was an air stifling the room between what they both refused to say. Guy relayed the possibility of a maidservant happening across his room while he had been summoning Allan. The door had been unlocked and someone must have been on rounds. No, he couldn't think that. No one had discovered the carnage in his bed chamber. No one had told the sheriff what they had witnessed because they had seen nothing. He could have bedded four virgins last night and no one would have been the wiser – there had been plenty of guests.

"Gisborne!" The sheriff had shouted in his ear, and Guy knew enough to just slightly tilt his head away to avoid the spit that went along with it. "Did you hear me Gisborne?" Vasey dragged out Guy's name in the midst of yelling, his smaller frame shaking with fury.

_You should have already shut him up; how much longer will you let him spout at you_?

"What?"

"Have you gone brain dead Gisborne? Can't you hear in that pretty little head of yours?" Vasey rapped his knuckles on the side of Guy's head.

_The longer you allow his mockery, the more days you'll spend like that twittering bird. You don't want that do you?_

Guy shook his head attempting to clear the fog settling in on him. "Wha- no. No, I don't want-." A gloved hand went to his head, his palms rubbing at his eyes.

"Oh, do you want something Gisborne? Why not ask your little leper friend? Not enough sores to keep a man like you company eh? I've warned you Gisborne; they're all alike."

_You are power and what is he? An old man, an old skeleton missing teeth._

Gisborne wasn't himself anymore, Vasey realized that much when the man raised his head from his hands and stared at him. The sheriff didn't so much have a look of fear on his face as a look of disgust.

"Dear god, what happened to you?" Vasey asked as his lip rose in disgust at Gisborne's dull, red eyes. Gisborne had his head tilted at a slight angle, as if surveying the sheriff in his entirety, but said nothing.

Vasey backed away, his hand fluttering along his desk for something to use as a possible weapon should the need arise. "Say, um, Gisborne, are you ill?" His fingers found a letter opener and clutched it. "You know, I have some very good doctors at my disposal."

Gisborne sniffed the air, a sneer playing across his lips. He watched Vasey circle behind his desk and his eyes stalked after the man, waiting.

"Doctors not to your taste? I know there's a good witch or two in the provinces. Ah, near Locksley I would imagine. Yes, I seem to recall almost drowning one there – a real witch there, yes. She'll be sure to fix you right up." Vasey had reached the other end of the desk, the closest to the door. He believed he could make his escape if Gisborne truly meant him harm.

He jumped as near as he could to the heavy oak door, brandishing his weapon of choice and necessity in Gisborne's direction. "Ha ha! Now you be a good boy and run along before I change my mind." Vasey was still hoping this was all a big joke, a birthday gag perhaps? Damn it, no, his birthday wasn't in December. His expression changed to an almost apologetic smile with dread of something inevitable in his dark eyes.

Gisborne grabbed hold of Vasey's arm before he could make another move for the doorway. With a single stride and the sheriff in tow, he reached the door and bolted it shut, pulling a nearby chair in front of it.

"_Do stop fussing sheriff; I hate it when I have to clean things off the floor_."

"Things? What things? Gisborne? Gisborne!"

Gisborne twisted the sheriff's neck roughly around and brought a hard bite against Vasey's neck, sinking his teeth in as deep as they would go. His tongue savored the flavor of the air bubbles curdling the blood with fear as it flowed into his throat.

* * *

Guy's tongue threaded over his teeth, stealing the final red remains of his meal from Vasey's body beneath him. The corpse was pallid, the white hairs along his beard nearly blending in with his fresh death.

_He will thirst soon._

The back of his leather glove wiped away the scarlet dribbling from his chin. Guy pulled the chair aside and unbolted the door; it was almost time for the sheriff's mid-afternoon meal. He dragged the chair over to the sheriff's body, sitting backwards in it as he rested his chin against the back. Guy kicked Vasey with the toe of his boot and gruffly told him to wake up. The eyes rolled under fluttering eyelids, the sheriff's body seizing temporarily. The puncture wounds on the side of his neck sputtered with a different intake of air; the marks closing over with new flesh. Once they were resealed, Vasey's body stopped convulsing and his eyes flew open. A brilliant flash of red met sunlight, as if some part of his eyelids had refused to yield. He stood and cracked his neck, forcing it easily back to its natural position.

Metal met stone in a harsh clatter; the pewter dishes with food scattered and rolled along the floor. The wine boy took in a gasp of air, staring wide-eyed at the sheriff as he had gone from dead to living in a matter of moments. Guy met the boy's terrified gaze with a sneer cast over his leather clad shoulder.

"You here for a reason boy?" Guy looked at Vasey, the man was grinning ear to ear, the spot on his fake tooth bold against the white.

"My lord sh-sheriff, s-sir." They could hear the boy swallow. He fell to action attempting to salvage what food and wine he could from the floor. He hustled the tray past Guy and the sheriff to the desk in the room, aware of their stares against his back.

* * *

A duo of soldier goons dressed in their bee-like yellow and black fell against the door frame of Vasey's room. "Sir, everything all right here sir?" Their eyes caught sight of the twitching mass of limbs under the sheriff's foot.

Vasey was the picture of serenity, the wine goblet raised to welcome the guards and a smile on his face. "Wouldn't you say so, gentlemen?"

"We heard screaming."

"Yeah, something awful."

Guy's chair creaked as he pushed himself from it. "The boy spilled wine on the sheriff's sleeve, he is being punished. I suggest you get back to your duties unless you want me to do the same to you." The guards hurried away down the corridor, the fear of Gisborne's wrath enough to spur them as far away as possible.

"Ha ha, Gisborne. Well done."

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

Allan swaggered down the hall behind Marian, she was always glad to take the lead; at the very least, he had a good view, and that was saying plenty. Two of Gisborne's men ran past them at full speed, tripping over their sneakers as they went. Giz was too cheap to buy them real shoes. He shrugged and returned his gaze to Marian's backside.

"Did you hear that?"

"Sorry, what?" Allan had to blink a few times to realize Marian was actually addressing him.

"That sounds like the sheriff." Marian heard Vasey's laughing down the corridor, praising Gisborne of something. Her round eyes widened as she threw a look to Allan brimming with confusion, suspicion, but most of all, hope. She gathered her skirts and ran in the direction of the sheriff's voice.

Guy was leaning against Vasey's desk laughing with him when Marian rushed into the room, her curls splaying across her flushed face. When she caught sight of him, standing there with a grin on his face, tears welled in her eyes. He turned to see who it was that had yet again interrupted to find the familiar curvature of a face he'd assumed he would never gaze upon again.

"Marian?"

She rushed to him then, her lips separating in a cry of relief as she embraced him. Her tears slid down her face and padded softly against his leather shirt. "Guy." She whispered as her hands clutched at his back.

"Marian!" Guy folded her in his arms, holding her tight so she might never slip away from him. He kissed her soft brown hair before lifting her face to kiss her eyes, her nose and those strong and supple lips. Her tears did not matter to him; they proved she was living, was here in front of him and real. "I thought, I thought I had- it doesn't matter what I thought. Oh god, Marian."

Allan was leaning against the door frame, his arms and legs crossed watching the scene play out. Ever the third wheel it was with him. He rolled his eyes and checked to make sure the hall was clear.

"Ahem. Gisborne." Vasey's voice grated against the moment, effectively cutting it to pieces. "What's she doing here, Gisborne? Your leper friend?"

Marian felt Guy stiffen and pull away to keep her at arm's length. "Guy." She pleaded, her fingers gripping his arms. "Guy, please."

Gisborne kept one hand around Marian's wrist, the other he shot accusingly toward the sheriff. "I have had enough!"

Vasey raised his eyebrows, taken aback by Guy's sudden assertiveness.

"Marian and I will do as we please-"

"Ah, but surely-"

"-without any of your interfering or your ill intentions."

"Now see here, Gisborne! I am the sheriff, the Sheriff!"

Guy let go of Marian and slammed his fists on the desk in front of Vasey. "No, you are nothing! You are what I have been for so long! You do not order me. I turned you."

Allan perked up; this could very well be going in his favour. "Oi, if we're talking about who bit who, shouldn't I be the one with all the power?"

The others looked at him in unison and yelled a resounding, "No," in response.

"Alright, alright. Just a thought. I mean, it'd be nice is all I'm sayin'."

Marian caught sight of the wine boy sitting on the floor behind Vasey's desk. "My lord, what have you done to him?" She rushed over and knelt down beside the boy, his face ashen and his eyes dull. Vasey rolled his eyes at Gisborne, and backed away from the boy.

"I'm thirsty, my lady."

"Alright, we'll get you some water. Allan, hurry, this boy needs water and possible medical attention. Quickly!"

"My lady please, I'm thirsty."

"Sheriff, what have you done to him?" Marian stood, glaring at Vasey. She noticed Allan was still in his doorway. "Allan? I told you to go!"

"Yeah, I heard you." He remained where he was.

She checked the boy again; his eyes were sinking deeper into a familiar red darkness. "Sheriff!"

Vasey threw his hands in the air dramatically and thrust one of his sleeves toward her. "He spilled wine on my sleeve. It was all an honest mistake. Eh, Gisborne?"

"You, you did this?"

Guy rolled his head to the side in annoyance. The sheriff was clearly enjoying this. "In a manner of speaking."

"But, how could you? I, I can't believe you would-"

"Eh, Marian?" Allan interjected, mostly because he didn't want to see Marian visit her wrath on anyone while he was in the vicinity.

"What?" She shrieked, completely frustrated with the whole situation.

"You may not like it, but-"

"Lord, Allan, spit it out already!"

Vasey was standing amongst his birdcages, watching the spectacle with childish glee and snickering.

"Well, you remember how I bit you coming up from the kitchens? No one else saw you the rest of the night, and Giz here wasn't to be seen either, right? Get what I'm sayin' yet? I mean, we went over this before, Marian."

"Are you saying what's happened to this boy is my fault?"

Gisborne heaved a sigh, "Quiet, the lot of you." He walked over to where Allan was standing, reprimanded him with a glare and leaned out in the corridor calling for a guard. When the goon finally arrived, Gisborne pointed to the child. The guard hesitated for a moment, preparing to draw his sword. Gisborne slapped him across the head, calling him an idiot and shoved him across the room.

The boy looked at the guard, a secret strength fuelling his small body to rise. The four of them left the room and closed the door.

"But, that man. What is he to eat?"

"There _are_ birds, Lady Marian." Vasey replied as he stalked off.

* * *

Robin had made a special trip to Ripley convent for Christmas to flirt with the mother superior and visit with the other nuns, especially his mother. She could expect him like clockwork to come strolling in at the most inappropriate time during the holiday.

"Robert. You know, most women, when they take their vows, do so because they mean to live in isolation from the material world."

"I'm not the material world, I'm your son. And you're not even a nun! You're a rich widow, living it up like this is a resort."

"I _was_ a rich widow, until you decided to abandon the family estate. What was it for, Robert, really, a sack of grain?"

"Three men's lives."

"I'm sure they deserved whatever was coming to them."

"Mother, please-"

"And it's not fair of you to remind me that I can't take vows. I never wanted to be married in the first place, and look at how much trouble it's caused me – even in my old age, I can't do the things I like, because I've been married, and bedded, so I cannot become a bride of Christ." She sank her nose into her wimple and sniffed.

"Well, the marriage brought you me, didn't it?"

"But it cost me my beauty! Childbirth is so devastating to the figure!"

Robin rolled his eyes. "Aren't nuns supposed to be free of vanity?"

"Don't you spout to me about rules!" She snapped. "Now, tell me, what did you come to bother me with – your poor, weak old mother in her infirmity?"

Robin sighed, and bent on one knee, taking her hands in his. "Mother, I want to ask your blessing. I've asked Marian of Knighton for her hand in marriage."

Her eyebrows nearly met her hairline – a feat, as her hair was already plucked back several inches. "You can't marry her!"

Robin sighed; this was typical. "Why the hell not?"

"Oh, please, Robert, just trust me. When she broke off your engagement because you went on crusade, it was really the best thing that could have happened. Honestly, I was beside myself with joy."

He fumed, tapping his fingertips across his knee. He wondered how many years in Purgatory he'd get for shooting his mother. He could claim the Devil made him do it.

"You have to be joking," he uttered in a dead voice.

"Quite the contrary. You two are an ill match."

"We always seemed to get along."

"Hmm, yes, much like twins."

"If you're trying to be clever, mother, pl-"

"No, I mean it. Robert, there's something I never told you, something I should have told you the first time you proposed to that illegitimate harpy-"

"Hey!"

"-but your father, rest him, refused to let happen. You and Marian are, you and Marian," she closed her eyes, racking her head for words. "Robert, don't make me say it."

"No, mother, if you insist on protesting, I'd like to hear. There must be a good reason. Marian is a wonderful woman, she is beautiful, she is kind, she is generous to the poor, and she is pious. And she is the only surviving member of her family, which means that I would stand to inherit everything she has. You can't object to that, at least."

"Robert, you're an outlaw. You can't inherit anything, not even a sheep."

"When Richard returns…"

She batted her hand, as though swatting away a fly. "You put so much faith in men, in kings. You can't make Marian wait that long."

"I'm not the one who wants to wait."

"You really think she wants you, then?"

He stood and started collecting his things. "There are many names for women like you, mother, and none of them I think are appropriate for a gentleman to use."

"How about prophetess? Savior? Angel of mercy, hmm?"

He stopped to glare at her, and then went back to adjusting his quiver. "You haven't given a single reason why I shouldn't marry her, except for your own bitterness, and that alone makes her an attractive wife."

"Fine," she waved her hand, and light reflected off her rings and into his eyes, like a signal flare. "I'll give you proof."

"No, mother, I will not play this game," he said sternly, his voice hitting that low, authoritative growl it took right before he embarked on a screaming match. "You've never liked Marian, and you're just searching for reasons to make me unhappy. I wish these nuns would have taught you more about compassion."

"Compassion?" She came back to him smiling, and waved a worn letter in his face. "Recognize the seal?"

He gritted his teeth. "Yes, it's father's."

"Good." Her voice was cool and serious. "Now, read the contents."

He sighed, unrolling the parchment to see what new joke she would play on him. It was a letter addressed from his father to Katherine Fitzwalter, Marian's mother. She was the great beauty whom Winchester had pursued. His eyes skimmed over the vellum, scanning a few lines. He stopped, and quickly rolled up the document.

"What is this?" He brandished the letter at her. "Why would you forge something so…so…" He made a face to illustrate his direction.

"Foul? Irregular? Perverted?"

"Yes, yes, all of those things! You're trying to libel father in his grave!"

"I would never do such a thing. I found this letter by accident; I confronted your father about it, and he was at least gracious enough to be honest." She took a deep breath, and laid her hand delicately atop Robin's own, careful not to touch more skin than was necessary. His eyes narrowed. "Robert, listen to me. This letter is one of many proofs. Your father was carrying on an affair with Katherine of Knighton, and Marian is his daughter."

"No."

"Marian is his daughter, and thus your half-sister. You cannot marry her."

He clenched his fists and then released them, expelling the anger. "You're lying."

"Do you want to see the other letters? I have a stack of them. Some use her seal."

Robin sunk into a chair, barely noticing the crunch of the quill pens that had fallen there from the desk. "Even if you're telling the truth, how do you know that she's not Edward's daughter?"

"Oh, she's Edward's child, no doubt about that. He raised her, and that's part of why she was so unruly. Even if she weren't your half-sister, I'd object on basic principle. But Katherine and Edward were childless for years, and it wasn't until after she seduced my husband that Marian was born. I'm just trying to be a good mother and warn you."

His eyes darted to hers. "You have never been a good mother. You're just trying to manipulate me."

"That's such an ugly word, Robert."

He covered his eyes and bowed his head between his legs, tapping the letter against his skull as if he could shake the truth out of it. He sensed his mother's arms hovering around him. He stilled, waiting to see if she had the courage to touch him. A pair of hands descended gingerly on his upper arms.

"I swear upon the cross," Her voice was honey and vinegar. "I tell you the truth: she is your sister."

"No!" He bellowed, pushing her desk into the wall so hard that the shelves above rattled. Leaves of parchment fell out over his head.

"Incest is a sin, Robert. You can love her but you cannot wed her."

"Lying before God is also a sin."

"You think I take that lightly?" She spat, hurling a pen at his head. "Of all things in the world, I renounce everything, except my faith. You have no right to accuse me of such things."

He stood up to his full height peered into her eyes, his face as smooth as stone. "I need to go."

She held up her cheek, as though expecting a farewell kiss. He hesitated for a moment, then bit back his nausea and pecked her face before barreling out the door.

The sharp unreality of her news dug into him like a set of claws. She could not be right. So what if Marian had the same nose as Robin's father? So what if both Sir Edward and Lady Katherine had fair hair? The things his mother said now were the ramblings of a vicious old bat. He would marry Marian, because he loved her, and she loved him, and there was nothing that anyone could do about that.

_To be continued..._


End file.
